Deviate
by Eurus Rantipole
Summary: Everything, and everything and everyday is way out of line, Does anybody have the right answer? Does anybody have a clue? No, don't remind me; I know what do. Are you ready to deprave yourself? Not everyone in Gotham NYPD thinks Nygma is just a creep who likes puns too much. (Rated T for cursing. Hodge-podge of Batman universes; uses Riddler's 'Gotham' origin story. Dark.)


In the beginning, it was just subdued admiration and curiosity.

And really, who -wouldn't-be curious? The way he flippantly, even giddily, treated crime scenes, the way he would tear apart even the most baffling forensic evidence and reduce it to clear-cut facts and data. By her reckoning, most of the cases at Gotham NYPD would still be unsolved if not for the leads he had provided the detectives.

She really shouldn't have been the only cop intrigued by Edward Nygma. Yet most of her colleagues treated him with disdain and distaste.

 _'Where does all that disgust -go-?'_ she would wonder silently, as his face would break into that awkwardly lopsided grin whenever DI Bullock or some other met his deductions and witticisms with some snarky comment. _'Surely all that negativity has to get through to a person, at some point…'_

"Stop thinking so much, Lydia," her partner would sigh exasperatedly, whenever she was sufficiently distracted to voice any of these thoughts. "He's just a creep who somehow passed the psych eval., and _you've_ got to get your head out of the clouds and maybe get some goddamned paperwork done.

At which point she would sigh and obediently dig out files and wonder why no one else seemed to think it was a bad idea to continually jab at the one person they knew who would probably be the most likely to get away with murder, if push came to shove.

But it wasn't a sense of fear or impending doom, or even a sense of self-preservation that led her to start asking for him specifically on the cases she worked, or to start buying two cups of coffee in the morning and dropping one off in the lab with a sticky note marked 'Nygma' stuck to it.

It wasn't fear that drove her to eventually just start handing him the coffee herself, or to start making light conversation whenever she saw him.

It was a growing fascination, and that ever-present undercurrent of awe, and she knew it, and when she thought about it, she was disgusted with herself for trailing after the guy like a curious, dumb puppy, but he was just, so, so….

 _Different._

And Nygma, smart as he was and actually quite perceptive regarding people to whom he bore no emotional attachment, was certainly not oblivious to her gradual insinuation into his daily routine. At first nonplussed, then a bit annoyed by the interference, he finally just gave a mental shrug and decided to indulge her (and himself, if we're being candid, but it's unlikely he even recognized this fact) and actually started giving more than terse, one-worded responses to her thinly disguised avid curiosity.

But Lydia, while perhaps a bit more introspective and a bit higher on the IQ spectrum than her fellow officers, was just. so. _Slow_.

He would try to explain his methodology to her, sometimes, if he was feeling generous, but most of the time he just rattled on and tried to ignore the bubbling frustration and impatience whenever he glanced over at those confused grey eyes.

Like a deer in headlights. Except she just kept coming back for the torture, rather than bounding away - like she should have! - once things passed beyond the scope of her comprehension (not very long at all).

Once, he had the brilliant idea of maybe making her useful for once and asked for advice regarding Kristen Kringle (they were both females, right? She must have - some- clue how he could best win Kringle's affections), but she had only started slightly, and looked at him surprised, then told him to 'just be himself.'

 _'Thanks, Lydia, I could have gotten that from my high school counselor or any generic book on romantic relationships. Clearly it isn't working, OR I WOULDN'T HAVE ASKED FOR HELP!'_

Of course, this mental diatribe only expressed itself in a slight thinning of his lips and flash in those green eyes, before he turned away to master the anger.

But Lydia knew enough from what she had seen of those gritted teeth before he turned his back that he was displeased and chose -wisely- to remain silent.

They didn't talk much about Kristen Kringle, after that. Lydia learned from office gossip that the two had gone on a date. Not long after, Kringle dropped out of the picture altogether - everyone's picture - as some incident with an ex led her to flee.

Or so Nygma claimed.

And there was a part of Lydia's mind that whispered, _'most likely to get away with murder,'_ but she didn't want to pay that thought the attention it deserved.

Because even though she was a cop, even though she had a duty to truth and justice, she realized that even if he _was_ guilty (he is, he is, look at him, look at his _eyes,_ he's _changed)_ she didn't want him to take the fall.

Not him.

 _(But he'll do it again,_ look _at him, and now that he's tested the waters…)_

Not him. He's too…

Smart. Cunning. Intelligent. Perceptive.

To rot in a jail cell.

And about a week after the Kringle disappearance, the dynamic between Edward and Lydia...shifted.

Pausing mid-description of exactly -how- the mother had almost gotten away with poisoning her own child, Nygma's head had suddenly snapped in Lydia's direction, meeting her gaze head-on.

"You know." It wasn't a question, it was a statement, delivered in a deeper, darker voice than the one with which she usually associated Edward. Yet, she had heard it before...several times…. on those occasions when he finally lost patience with her inability to _keep up_ and had let the glimmer of something more brutal, more _raw_ spark through the cracks of his self-control.

This voice meant danger, and her initially startled eyes grew wary accordingly.

"Yes." There was no point denying it or even pretending she didn't know. She resisted the impulse to close her eyes for even a second to register the sudden despair that _he knew._

No. She had to be alert. Keep him in view. If she let her guard down for even a second…

"Sooo…," he grinned slowly, almost mischievously, but there was a sense of something feral in those eyes, sadistic anticipation. She could -feel- the danger radiating from him.

"How -do- you plan on maintaining your loyalties and pretentious morals," he stalked towards her as he spoke, drawing closer in an ever-tighter circle as she stood stock still as though that would make her less of a target.

Deer in headlights.

Warm breath on her neck, and she shivered, finally letting her eyelids slip down (it's not like she could see him anyway!) - "when you're protecting a murderer?"

Grey eyes opened again and shifted to meet his across the awkward angle at his mocking, innocently curious tone. As if he was wondering whether the cream cheese on her bagel that morning would cause her indigestion.

He was waiting, one side of his mouth quirking up to reveal grinning white teeth, clearly amused by her predicament for once rather than just annoyed by it.

After she had opened and closed her mouth stupidly a few times ( _'like a fucking_ fish, _Lydia, honestly')_ , Nygma took pity on her (or seemed to, but she knew better), and wrapped an arm around her shoulders in a mockery of consolation, "Well, since you seem to be at a loss for words at the moment, I'll tell you what _I_ think," she said sympathetically, then suddenly shifted to that darker, deeper growl, and Lydia shuddered as his fingers dug painfully into her shoulder blade.

" _I_ think," he hissed into her ear harshly, "That you've rather -lost- those great high-and-mighty moral standards at this point. _I_ think, and bear with me here, because this might actually take some mental _effort_ on your part -" his other hand wrenched at her other shoulder as he glided to move behind her, and Lydia yelped involuntarily, not just from the pain, but also from the knowledge that he could pull her arms out of her sockets at this angle - "that you're just another stupid _ignoramus_ who can't rub two brain cells together, so decides to cling to the nearest someone who _can."_

"I think," he whispered more softly in her ear, suddenly switching to a more contemplative tone, "that you're _pathetic."_

And then he had suddenly stepped back and away neatly, the sudden relief from the pressure on her shoulders, as well as the presser on _her_ from having him so close this violently-inclined, caused her to draw a shuddering breath as she scrambled to recover what was left of her wits.

 _'Pathetic?'_

For once, Lydia's eyes met Nygma's green not with the flat grey of incomprehension but the stormy black of anger.

"And why?" she drawled, drawing a certain measure of icy calm from this anger. "Because I was curious? Because I was too slow to catch on sometimes? Well," she continued flatly, with a slight smirk, allowing herself to feel a bit triumphant at eliciting that small flash of surprise _-surprise! -_ in Nygma's - _Nygma's!_ \- eyes, "at least I _kept_ asking questions and kept _trying_ to understand, even though you seemed intent on making it as difficult as possible." She scoffed, and was rewarded by a slight quirk of Nygma's eyebrow, still clearly somewhat taken aback by this unexpected comeback.

But this was not submissive, coffee-bearing, wannabe intellectual Lydia, with maybe a mild crush on her coworker. This was battle-mode Lydia, responding to a clearly-expressed threat from a very real source.

She folded her arms and leaned against one of the nearby lab counters, all cocksure poise, and met his eyes head-on. "Not all of us can have a 600 IQ."

Nygma sighed impatiently. "The IQ rating system doesn't even _go_ that high, moron," recovering from his surprise with the opportunity to criticize her.

"Well, your's would," Lydia snapped, then busily went about trying to ignore the fact she'd just complimented him ( _'now, Lydia? REALLY?! Why don't you just relabel your name tag 'Besotted Idiot.' Maybe the daily reminder will knock some sense into your skull)_.

Nygma, of course, didn't miss a beat, simply smirked in return. "And here I thought you kept coming back to try and bulk up all that grey matter floating around your head….but if you're going to start _mooning_ over me even right before I'm going to kill you…, well, I suppose there were other motives behind your _ever_ so wearying visi-"

"MOONING?!" Lydia practically shrieked, throwing herself of the counter and balling her fists at her sides. "I just _fucking_ said you had a high IQ, you narcissistic, egotistical, _basta_ -"

"Weelll, I see _we_ have our priorities straight, then," Nygma said, rolling his eyes. "You -did- just hear me say I'm going to kill you right? And -my- but weren't we just a _tad_ bit defensive on the _mooning_ front?"

Lydia gaped at him, floored by both his arrogance and the fact that, yeah, she had just fucked up pretty badly, hadn't she?

So she tried to do what any sensible person who _hadn't_ called in a compulsive psychopathic murderer and instead chosen to hound them like a lovesick fangirl would do - she tried to act nonchalant and pretend it hadn't happened.

"You're impossible," she huffed, resuming her position against the counter and re-crossing her arms. "And killing me is only going to increase the chances of you getting caught."

Edward simply tilted his head at her knowingly, all haughty derision, and Lydia huffed again. "Okay, fine, you'd find a way to get away with it, but -really-, why? I haven't said a wo-"

"Not like you have proof anyway," he stated, boredly inspecting his fingernails.

"OK, no, but really, that's even more reason to let me live, right? And, besides, even the hint of a suspicion against you dropped in the workroom would bring all of the detectives clamoring for your head."

Nygma was actually giving her a small portion of his attention now, green eyes slit narrowly over his fingers looking at her, and she took heart that maybe she -was- getting through to him somehow. Could she maybe get out of this alive?

"They hate you. You might not have left evidence, maybe there's nothing to convict you with, but that won't stop one of our guys pulling the trigger on you claiming that you 'ran' or 'had a weapon' or some shit."

"I haven't said a word. I'm certainly not going to say anything _now._ I'm not exactly Miss Popular, hanging around you so much, and after a week of saying nothi-"

"Enough," he raised a hand commandingly, clearly bored again by her rambling, and she immediately cut off, hating herself for bowing to him so easily. "I'm quite able to follow your flawed reasoning, especially given that I've already considered everything that there is to consider regarding this matter. The _point_ is that while there is not a definite need to eliminate you, there is absolutely no need to keep you alive. It's not like your death would be any great loss to the intellectual community, and besides," he leaned forward slightly, and bit out the last words with emphasis, eyes hard and unrelenting, " _I don't depend on the indiscretion of others."_

Lydia swallowed. He was right.

She was screwed, so, so, so screwed, _damn, damn, da-_

Edward paused midstride in his threatening saunter over to her petrified form, the syringe he had been sliding out of his sleeve suddenly still.

"What?" he asked, almost normally, genuinely startled.

Lydia, equally shocked at herself, gaped at him for a moment before repeating her outburst.

"I... I could…. help...you?" Stormy black had changed back to wide, doe-eyed grey, as she waited for his reaction, still stunned at her daring.

It wasn't long in coming.

He actually dropped the syringe as he doubled over, laughing hysterically, and Lydia considered making a wild dash for it before quickly discarding the idea. Edward could move wicked fast when he chose, she knew, and besides the syringe was just one tool. He'd find another way, if necessary. As far as using it against him?

Well, she _did_ have her gun already. But somehow even the concept of causing him bodily harm, even in self-defense, hadn't occurred to her.

And as soon as Lydia realized that, she quickly went about trying to _un-_ realize it, not wanting to think about how or why she somehow refused to protect herself from this lunatic, so we'll just have to relegate that under the 'Codependent' subheading under 'Personality Defects.'

"YOU?!" Nygma gasped, wheezing with mirth, "Of what POSSIBLE value could your 121 IQ and mediocre shot accuracy hold for ME?"

Lydia fidgeted awkwardly, suddenly tired and just wanting this to be _over._

"Well, even _you're_ going to need an ally at some point. Whom better than an active cop?"

Part of Lydia was horrified that she was doing this. Not voicing a suspicion was one thing, but willingly aiding and abetting a murderer? Just to save her own ass?

But although the need self-preservation was definitely a heavy influence on her mind right now, she suddenly realized that she really would rather be helping Nygma than the retarded ass cops she dealt with on a daily basis. How many innocents had the police in Gotham NYPD killed exactly, either because they got in the line of fire, or because they were paid a hefty enough sum of money to surreptitiously off them? The mob barely even tried to hide its influence in law enforcement or city politics anymore. Time and time again she was forced to look the other way, or even lock away person they _knew_ was innocent, simply because the right amount of money had changed hands. Who was worse?

She couldn't believe she was even _thinking_ this.

And yet…

Nygma was shaking his head wonderingly at her audacity. "And you really think that -you- are the one cut out for that job?" his eyes roved over her with disdain.

"Well, no one else even thought to suspect you," she retorted. "And even if anyone else did, I doubt they would have refrained from reporting you like _I_ did.

Nygma smirked knowingly at this, but only hummed, returning to circling her, critically. "I must say, I -am- rather surprised you're managing to put together a half decent argument rather than just cracking under pressure, but I suppose that's law enforcement conditioning for you. Even so…" He paused, and looked directly into her eyes, assessing, yet intimidating, "I'm still not entirely sure what you're _offering_ here."

He leaned in, mint and coffee from his breath wafting over her face. "Are you offering to do the _dirty_ work for me? You, a cop, a hit woman for a criminal?" He grinned, appearing genuinely tickled by this. "I must say, the irony -does- appeal."

Lydia blanched, immediately realizing just how dumb she had been - _what_ had she been thinking, to say that? Of _course_ that was the kind of help he would need, what was she thinking she was going to do for him? Keep right on getting him _coffee_?

"N-No," she stammered, backing away from that predatory grin, right up until she stumbled into the autopsy table behind her. "No, I -didn't mean-"

"Didn't you?" he all but purred, cocking his head at her. "How _else_ did you expect to 'help' me? Information? I already know more about this place, and, indeed, the rest of Gotham, that you''ll _ever_ be able to dig up, Lydia."

Her mind ran. "Protection," she blurted. I have access to the evidence room, I could make certain things... _disappear_ if the need were to arise." _(What the fuck are you_ saying _Lydia?!)_

"Again, there _is_ no evidence to obscure. Redirecting suspicion? Perhaps, but quite useless if it's already unfounded. However..." he paused, mind calculating, "Any criminal worth his salt, should have a reliable network. I suppose it's just my bad luck to have to start with _you._ Although, the benefits of having someone smack in the middle of Gotham's NYPD..."

He leaned forward again, and although there were still several feet between them, Lydia still felt as though the gap was much too small for comfort.

"What -are- you willing to do? Are you willing to lie for a murderer, Lydia? Are you willing to steal?" She remained still as he resumed that predatory circling, watching as he came to a stop finally directly in front of her. "Are you willing to put the lives of your colleagues, your friends, your family, _yourself_ behind _my_ welfare? Because if you're not, you might as well say so now. I'll give you a quick death at least." leaned across to bridge the tiny distance remaining between them, "but if you agree," he hissed, "if you pledge yourself to my service and then renege, I'll do much, much worse than just _kill_ you, Lydia. I'll destroy your _life_ , your _reputation_. I'll ensure that you haven't a friend in the world, and then I'll kill the ones who once _were_ your friends. I'll make your mind a hell to live in, and your world will soon follow suit, as those things go. I'll watch your sanity trickle away, bit by bit, and you know what? In the end, I won't even be the one to kill you." He snapped his teeth next to her ear threateningly, not remotely sexual, just pure animal intimidation. Lydia jumped, involuntarily.

"You'll take care of that matter yourself."

Lydia swallowed, hard, squeezing her eyes shut for a millisecond, then snapping them open again as she felt him move away to a more respectable distance.

"You're not really leaving me with much choice, are you?" she said, mostly to save face. Still, her voice came out far more shakily than she would have liked, and the would-be snappy-retort rather lost its intended effect. "It's die now, die later, or become your criminal accomplice, and, most probably, eventually get sent to jail and die _there._

"Oh, we -all- have a choice, Lydia," Edward drawled. But he was losing patience with this game. There was only so long you could bat a mouse around before it ceased to be amusing.

Lydia could sense that Nygma's mind was turning to other things. Soon, he would decide to just kill her and end it, rather than put up with more arguments. She had to make a decision, and quick, she realized, wetting suddenly dry lips.

Internally, she wanted to scream and punch the wall in frustration at her seeming helplessness here. Surely there must be a way out? But no...not one that she could see. There was no way _out._ But there was a way, -one- way, that she could live.

"No one innocent gets hurt?" she asked, forcing herself to remain as outwardly stoic as she could manage.

Nygma rolled his eyes. "You -do- realize you're essentially signing up to be an unpaid thug, right? Not a _partner_. I'm not going to ask your approval for _anything_ I do. And besides," green eyes pierced her mockingly, "who among us is truly innocent, anyway? Even babies fresh out of the womb are guilty of contributing to overpopulation. Another set of useless lungs, tiny as they may be. We're all so littered with ''sin' the term 'innocent' is hardly even applicable."

"Fine," Lydia was far, _far_ more agreeable than she should have been, but she was tired, overwrought, and, yes, terrified. And right now, not having to physically face any of the demands he was making, it was far easier to agree to them. But even now, in the back of her mind, she feared how much she would come to regret this decision in the future. "Just...please don't make me hurt anyone unless they pose an active physical threat to your person?" It was meant to be a statement. Instead it came out as a question, and her eyes looked at him pleadingly, searching for an impossible fragment of empathy in a psychopath.

Maybe it was because he was just as tired of the situation as she was. Or maybe it was because he never intended to keep his word. But he agreed, after staring at her consideringly for a few moments.

"Very well. Unless I feel threatened by an individual, I won't force you to do them harm. But, remember your other promises. You're life is, essentially, mine, Lydia. You will do everything in your power to shield my actions from the police, and you will share any information relevant to my interests, although, doubtless it will already be known to me," he added that last bit condescendingly before continuing in a more brisk tone, "finally, you will not discuss this conversation, or any future dealings, with anyone other than myself."

He grinned, a bit maniacally, all told, and held out his hand. "Do we have an accord?"

Lydia's mind -itched-. She felt like he had left himself a tidy loophole in the whole, 'only-killing-individuals-that-pose-a-threat' portion of their agreement, but she was too tired to argue further. If he pushed her that far, to kill innocents, than she would back out. She would find a way to escape him, he couldn't be everywhere at once. And she had friends overseas who might help her, perhaps far enough away that he wouldn't be able to touch her.

She was scared. She was frustrated. But there was another emotion circling in her mind, and upon quick reflection, she was startled to identify it as... _excitement._

For once, she felt as though she had been made privy to something larger than herself that didn't crack under the first bout of moral questioning. Because this wasn't even _pretending_ to morality. It was just inherently _wrong._ And something that was wrong, and accepted itself as wrong without batting an eyelash, felt...surprisingly _refreshing._

Still, it should have bothered her more that this 'larger something' were the grand aspirations of a psychotic, disordered murderer, but it just...didn't.

Something shifted in her eyes as she looked down to the offered hand, long, fine-boned fingers outstretched in invitation. If she looked long enough, would she see blood on those fingernails?

It didn't matter. She had made her decision.

Grey eyes flashed steel as Lydia grasped the future Riddler's hand, feeling very much like she was adding the final flourish on a signature contracting her soul to the Devil.

 _So be it._ She met Edward's grin of satisfaction with her mouth set in a line of firm resolve as their hands gave a strong shake.


End file.
